Do You Have To Go?
by XXShyNightmareXX
Summary: One-shot. WWII "The name's Alfred F. Jones." He smiled. "Pleased to meet you, I'm Arthur. Arthur Kirkland."


August 24th, 1940

* * *

><p>"Sometimes...love can be so unexpected..."<p>

* * *

><p>Arthur yelped as he fell off his ladder, successfully knocking over a tower of books and dust with him. Sneezing and coughing, he groaned and cursed under his breath. Standing up and dusting off his pants, he sighed.<p>

"I'll just have to stack all these bloody books again, won't I?" He murmured to himself. Only a week into his new job as an assistant, and he absolutely despised it.

He loved books. But when he took the job, he was not expecting a beat up back room full of dusty books that no one was going to find a single interest in. Actually, most people wouldn't find an interest in even the store itself. It was in-between a few selective shops - all of which that were close to shutting down - and was rickety beyond belief. The sign was hanging in tatters by a single folly nail, and the inside wallpaper was peeling. He began to re-stack the books, ignoring the ache in his back from the fall.

"Arthur? What-" The voice cut off upon entering the room, and the Briton glared at it's owner. A Frenchma, named Francis - who had a high tendency to flirt with him on nearly every occasion - even though he was in a relationship. Arthur knew that the man would never go as far as to cheat, but that didn't mean he would tolerate the lame pick-up lines constantly thrown his way either. Only a few years older than him, and fresh out of college at that, Francis was trying to keep up the bookshop as a side-job for his grandparents. The Frenchman chuckled before leaning against the door-frame, leaving the Brit to continue with stacking. "Well, it would seem as though you're the same as ever. Still have that furrow in your brow," he proceeded to point his finger at Arthur's forehead. A growl was sent in his direction.

"Mon ami, please calm yourself. It was only a joke." Francis smiled as he flipped his hair back over his shoulder, his smile quickly turning into a frown. "I was actually wondering if you wouldn't mind closing shop for me tonight. It may just be Matthieu's last day in London before he has to be sent to-" He trailed off. "Well, and I would just love to spend some time with him. I do hope you don't mind."

Arthur sighed and looked back at him. Francis was fidgety, and his eyes were downcast. He understood why. He was nervous that his lover was going to be injured. London had gotten bombed on it's outskirts only just last night, scaring everyone into a hectic panic. Pilots were being sent to Berlin in a return strike. Most of them were British, but a couple were transfers from other countries. "Not at all. I should be able to close up. It's not as if we're too busy." He sarcastically replied. He was just dirty and grumpy. He wanted a shower.

"Merci. Here's the spare key. I owe you one." He grabbed his coat and bag - and left in a hurry.

"Bloody frog. You sure as hell do owe me one." He muttered, sneezing again. He stood up - books in hand - and set them on the table where they were before. Rummaging about in a drawer, he dragged out a ballpoint pen before seating himself in the chair and checking the archive's list.

* * *

><p>"It can happen at the most random of times. At some of the most strange and unexpected places..."<p>

* * *

><p>Arthur was finally done with running over the archives, and he hadn't heard back from Francis. He must have gone home after saying goodbye. He frowned at that. Things were bad before, but now it seemed as if everything was beginning to escalate. More and more soldiers were being sent day by day. Even a couple of American troops had been transferred over. To be honest, it seemed like England was going to be getting the brunt of it. France had been taking it pretty badly - ports captured, and mostly the whole country taken by German troops.<p>

He rubbed his temples as he tried to make his raging headache fade away. He didn't need anymore stress at the moment, nor did he need to continue to think about it. He wouldn't be able to make a difference anyway. He stood up and stretched his back, letting loose a satisfied sigh as it popped.

He began to clean up, and he nearly cried in frustration when he was making his way to leave, only come to find it was pouring rain. He didn't live that far, but he hadn't brought himself an umbrella either. He took a deep breath before leaving the bookshop, and making sure to lock it behind him. Holding his coat over himself the best he could, he left the shelter of the outer roof, and began to run down the street.

Not watching where he was going, he slammed straight into someone's chest, and was harshly knocked onto the ground. He flinched at his injury being hit in the same spot once again. There would surely be a lovely bruise to show come morning.

"I'm so sorry! I didn't see ya there!" A hand entered his peripheral vision, and he took it. Not even caring that he was soaked to the bone, Arthur sent an apologetic glance at the man in front of him.

"No. I believe that I was at fault. I wasn't watching where I was going." His eyes still trained on the ground, he began to pick up his now-soaked bag.

But before he could also get his coat, the man did it for him. "Thank you," he murmured as he took it.

"No problem. And nah, I wasn't paying attention much. So, I guess we're both at fault here, huh?" American. It was only now that Arthur met the man's eyes. Blue. Sky blue. And he had such a young face. He looked as if he were only still in his late teenage years. Arthur's eyes unintentionally saddened. The boy was wearing a bomber pilot uniform.

"Well, actually, how would you like to come to my place for a cup of tea? As in apology for me bumping into you? We can get out of this rain." He smiled at the American, who agreed wholeheartedly with a huge grin on his face.

* * *

><p>"It can make you feel like no one else exists, like everything is peaceful for once..."<p>

* * *

><p>"The name's Alfred F. Jones."<p>

He smiled.

"Pleased to meet you, I'm Arthur. Arthur Kirkland."

* * *

><p>"And that feeling of being embraced...of being cared for."<p>

* * *

><p>September 4th, 1940<p>

Arthur had been with Alfred for nearly a couple of weeks now. They danced, laughed, and Arthur had never been any happier.

"Hey, Alfred." The American squeezed Arthur's hand in acknowledgement.

"Why're you here?"

Alfred smiled. "I was called as a back-up, considering the British are losing men everyday. My brother was called in too."

And they left it at that, choosing to cuddle within the warm cocoon of blankets over speaking of the worsening war raging around them.

* * *

><p>"Eventually, you want to attach yourself to that person."<p>

* * *

><p>September 6th, 1940<p>

Arthur gasped, and it quickly was muffled by Alfred's mouth in a kiss. He groaned painfully, as the American slowly began to rock his hips. The rain pattering on the windows as they rolled against one another. Arthur was panting harshly when the kiss broke, and he nearly lost it at one sharp thrust from Alfred - when the American finally nailed his prostate.

"A-Alfred," he moaned in a nearly inaudible whisper.

* * *

><p>"That's what they call love...isn't it?"<p>

* * *

><p>September 7th, 1940<p>

Arthur was in a daze at work nearly all day. Francis had teased him about wanting to know what had happened the previous night that would put him in such a mood, but the Brit could tell the Frenchman's heart wasn't into it. He hadn't heard from Matthew once since he'd left for Germany on that fateful day. Arthur did feel for him, but his mind was still stuck on the American that he had come to know. He thought that it felt like something was finally going right for once.

Later that night, he and Francis were getting ready to close shop when they heard plane engines. Arthur's eyes widened in fear. "Those aren't ours are they?" He asked Francis, trying to keep his voice from wavering. Francis looked just as terrified as he.

"No Arthur. I don't believe they are. Hurry, back here," he quickly shoved the younger assistant into the back room, as it was their safest bet.

Francis was still trying his best to calm the Briton down when the first bomb hit. Arthur jumped in fear as a small tremor and roar made it's way through the late night. The bomb had hit further from them, closer to the outskirts. But Francis wasn't exactly sure how safe they'd be in the back of the small bookshop, or whether it'd keep them safe at all.

Just then, the shop's front door jingled the bell as it was slammed open, and two pairs of feet ran across the floor. Francis pushed Arthur's trembling frame behind him, prepared to fight in the case of any German soldiers invading. He nearly cried in relief when Matthew's worried face appeared in the doorway. "Matthieu!" He gasped, swallowing back tears. Francis ran towards the blonde, embracing him in a tight hug.

"Francis," the Canadian murmured affectionately. "I brought Alfred with me as well. He was worried about you too. " Arthur's head snapped up at that. Alfred? It couldn't be the same one...

Sure, the American knew where he lived, but he'd never told him where he worked. "Mattie? Where ya at?"

"In the back Al." Matthew responded.

Arthur - still unnoticed - visibly stiffened at the voice. It was. And right then, Alfred entered the room as well, dressed in his uniform. His blue eyes fretted over his brother for a moment before scanning the room, and settling on Arthur.

"Artie?"

Arthur nearly choked.

"A-Alfred?"

He let out a strangled sob, as he ran to the American who embraced him a tight hug. "Goodness Arthur, I didn't even know you worked here." All Arthur could do was let out a muffled cry. He was scared for his life, and this idiot was as calm as could be. Francis eyes watched them curiously for a moment, before he smiled and laughed.

"Well, Arthur, you didn't tell me your good time last night was because you got yourself a man," he teased, trying to lighten the mood. Matthew forced a smile.

The moment was over and gone before Arthur got the chance to remark. Another bomb hit, this time much closer, and the explosion knocked everyone off of their feet. They were quickly ushered to a corner by Matthew, and all crouched on the ground. Arthur kept himself huddled against Alfred, shaking like a leaf. And so they sat like that, terrified. Arthur was sobbing nearly the whole while before he cried himself to sleep against Alfred's chest.

* * *

><p>"These cruel, wanton, indiscriminate bombings of London are, of course, a part of Hitler's invasion plans. He hopes, by killing large numbers of civilians, and women and children, that he will terrorize and cow the people of this mighty imperial city . . . Little does he know the spirit of the British nation, or the tough fibre of the Londoners."<p>

* * *

><p>Night after night, there were bombings. We were forced into cramped shelters and tunnels with millions of other people. All of us losing homes, and all of us terrified for our lives. Yes, we fought back. Yes, it brought us together.<p>

But it was tearing people apart all at the same time. The children who cried for their lost parents. The parents who cried for their lost children. The lovers who wept for one another when separated. The ones who cried for lost love. Those who wailed with the sirens. And each time, the people of Britain's heart came closer. We became stronger. But...

Alfred was gone. Matthew had been injured when called into a raid. He and Francis were sleeping next to Arthur. All of them crammed into an underground tunnel. Alfred had been called instead of his brother, and Arthur hadn't heard from him in months. Not a single letter.

* * *

><p>"And it seems to hurt the heart more than heal it..."<p>

* * *

><p>November 13th, 1940<p>

"I've got to go Artie." Alfred whispered into his boyfriend's ear. Arthur shook his head against the American's chest, holding back the flow of tears. "Hey," Alfred murmured comfortingly as he cradled Arthur's face, wiping away a few lose tears with his thumbs. "I'm coming back, ya know? Because I'm your hero." And he smiled.

Arthur watched him for a moment...and then he broke. Gasping, he bawled into the American's shirt, thoroughly soaking it. And at that moment, he didn't care.

Because he loved Alfred F. Jones, and Alfred loved him back just as much.

"Git..."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Okay. I know this might not be perfectly and _exactly_ historically accurate. But I did make sure to look up all of these dates, and I used every single detail - down to the last word. So, I am absolutely positive that this is close enough (as it is just a one-shot). I like _constructive criticism. _But to rudely comment as a guest without giving me an explanation is a little immature. I do figure, that if it was bad enough to point it out - my English History Major acquaintance - would be more than happy to let me know I did something wrong when she proof-read it for me.**


End file.
